“Who’s to Say”


surrounds us,

burning bridges

only to lift ourselves,

but rightfully so,



the trees, leaves, dirt below,

growing together without care,

where a trait

is not a definition,

but an observation,


Concern for

complexion, language, religion

consumes us.

The heart has run away,

refusing to succumb

to a world without it.

Endless hurt

as the result of cruelty

and fake representation

spews from the Earth

in rogue combinations

of alphabet soup.

The apple

doesn’t fall far from the tree,

but only if it’s red, you see.

For the green never leave,

clutched forever in a labyrinth

of thorns.


We relate

through a common hatred

over a gift from God.

Where judgment reigns

from a lack of knowledge,

sprouting from bitter hearts.

We identify who we are

through the speculation

of those around us.

Who’s to say

what makes me, me?


The only answer, I see,

is obviously,



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